by Jill Morrow
How?
She’d begun this search in good faith. It had led her here. She would remain safe as long as she stayed within the protection of the light. That meant accepting guidance in God’s time, not her own.
Thankful for invisibility, Francesca cautiously moved toward the church. She would wait where the light felt strongest.
8
“T HERE!” A LYS LURCHED TOWARD HER BEDROOM WINDOW, craning her neck to catch a better view. “It has drifted into the church!”
“He will not leave. Ever.” Gregory folded his arms across his chest and lowered his brow.
“Did you see it? That…that shimmering form in the courtyard has floated like a petal into the church!”
“He will stay well into the bishop’s next visit, and we shall all pay for it. Alys, why did you defy my wishes?”
The prioress passed a limp hand across her forehead. She was tired. Hours meant for sleeping were now spent tossing and turning as she worried about Isobel’s disobedience and wondered whether the boarder would ever leave. She rose from her bed each morning with bones heavier than when she’d retired. And now she was starting to see images that simply weren’t there.
“Alys.” Gregory was beside her now. “You’ve not heard a word.”
“Don’t heckle me, Gregory. I heard you.”
He sighed, then pulled her close. “Why is it I can never remain angry with you?”
“We should never put this to rights if you could.”
They turned as one to stare through the window. The summer sun rested a little past peak, bathing the courtyard in strong, persistent rays. This was the time of day when Alys most missed the meadows of her girlhood. How she longed for a field of deep, fragrant grass in which to rest her weary body!
The guesthouse door slammed open. Hugh emerged, wooden recorder in hand. Alys and Gregory instinctively stepped back into the shadows of the room.
With a sly glance toward the prioress’s bedroom window, Hugh lifted the recorder to his lips. Mellow tones floated on the air, teasing Alys’s ears. The somber walls of her bedroom melted away. She saw herself seated in the Great Hall of a manor house as a courtly minstrel played the pipes solely to please her. An ermine-trimmed cloak sheltered her from the chill draft that passed through the brightly colored tapestries adorning the stone walls. She heard the welcome cacophony of footsteps and voices as her lord, her Gregory, strode into the hall, accompanied by his hunts-men and dogs.
“My Alys.” He swept her into his arms. “Could anything on earth surpass the joy of coming home to you?”
Oh, to forget Saint Etheldreda’s and capture the life she might have lived!
The unattainable images buzzed through her head like bees. She angrily batted them away.
“I do not like his playing,” she said.
“I do not like anything about him.” Gregory’s eyes, clouded with discontent, did not leave Hugh’s tall, retreating form. Alys wondered what pictures visited her beloved when the boarder piped his melodies.
But Gregory shrugged away any unhappiness. Only a wistful sigh revealed that he, too, had been transported far beyond Saint Etheldreda’s iron gates. “Where does he go?” he asked.
“I do not know. I do not care.”
“You’d best care, my love, for here comes one of your own flock to follow him.”
Alys stepped toward the window ledge. Indeed, Isobel crossed the courtyard, skimming across the earth on light feet. With the confidence of one who knows that nothing can stop her, she reached the gate and firmly tugged it open.
The tones of the recorder grew fainter, but still they taunted Alys’s ears, inducing an exquisite melancholy that seemed nearly sacred.
How much she had sacrificed! How hard she had worked for so little, and how unappreciated were all her efforts!
“This cannot continue.” The shock in Gregory’s voice pulled her from her misery.
“No,” she agreed, irritation rising. She started quickly toward the stairs.
Gregory turned to follow.
He was beautiful with those long, strong legs. His golden hair glinted in the sunlight. She could watch him for hours as she perched lightly on this tree stump like the butterfly he often told her she would become.
“Yes, Isobel, a butterfly,” he’d say in mahogany tones. “For a butterfly transforms itself from the lowly to the sublime. You, too, shall do this. You shall burst from your cocoon in brilliant glory if you listen to me.”
Words such as these often made her frown. She considered herself quite glorious already, definitely more akin to butterfly than caterpillar. But then, she never understood much of what Hugh said. Fortunately, her desire for him did not require an understanding of his whims.
Sun streamed into the forest clearing, inviting daydreams. Isobel paid it no mind. Instead she studied Hugh through half-lidded eyes. His gestures were sharp and sure. The arrogant thrust of his chin made her stomach tumble over and over itself like currents in a stormy sea. His long, tapered fingers bespoke elegance, but she’d seen those hands crack thick branches in two. How strong he was!
She’d felt his embrace only in dreams. Countless dreams she’d had of him before coming here, enchanting dreams that studded her nights like gems on a goblet. Of course she’d recognized him when he’d finally arrived in the stark light of day. Hadn’t he called her for months?
Perhaps she did have the second sight her grandfather so feared. She didn’t know. She knew only that her mind possessed countless thoughts for which God had somehow forgotten to provide a voice. Her father claimed that her lack of speech came as punishment for past unknown sins. Her mother wrung her hands and proclaimed that those sins had made the daughter stupid as well as silent. Isobel herself had long ago decided that her only sin was allowing her parents sovereignty over her.
For years she had endured their cockeyed plans to marry her off to one unsavory character or another. Would it be the drooler or the pockmarked merchant, the four-month-old noble or the eighty-year-old addle-pate? No wonder she reveled in breaking pottery and striking all who vexed her! Such violent actions kept her safely unwed. But then her parents had inflicted their latest indignity: this odious idea that she spend her life locked away in a dreary priory with her haughty aunt Alys and a passel of moldy nuns. Oh, the havoc she’d intended to wreak!
She’d first dreamt of Hugh last Michaelmas, before the frosts of winter had settled in. Soon, daytime drudgery ceased to matter. After all, there was always Hugh waiting for her when she closed her eyes at night. He alone did not require spoken words to understand her heart. She’d never once doubted his existence, for how could anyone so loving be anything but real? Indeed, it was her waking hours that took on a tinge of the otherworldly.
Dream-world Hugh had even given her a sign of his presence. One night, in the midst of the dream, he’d raised her fingertips to his lips. She’d winced at the prick that stung her soft finger pads as he kissed each one in turn, but she’d awakened renewed, the ability to quickly stitch her thoughts whirring through her hands.
She shifted on the tree stump. He’d been good to her. He’d been true. Miraculously, he’d even lifted himself out of her dreams and into her waking hours. What more could she ask?
Much more, it seemed. Now that Hugh stood before her as a living, breathing man, her skin itched to feel his touch. The thought of his hand on hers sent violent shivers up her spine. How could he care so much for her, yet never ever touch her?
Hugh’s shoulder muscles rippled beneath his tunic as he dropped an armload of kindling into the center of a small stone circle. Isobel sighed. There’d be another fire today, a fire in the midst of this hot, fair summer afternoon. That meant a lesson.
“Damn them all!” Hugh’s voice rumbled through the clearing. “I had not planned on so little time. We must make haste. Come to me, Isobel.”
She slowly rose.
He stood before her, arms outstretched. She glanced quickly at his face, avoiding his ey
es. As much as she loved to watch Hugh, she could never meet his eyes. In her dreams they had been deep, clear blue. In life they resembled pits in the earth, so endlessly dark were they. She let her gaze wander. She wanted to bury her face in his hair. She’d never before met a man so clean. Hugh’s hair always shone, and his clothes were never lined with rings of sweat.
“Come.” His sharp voice urged her forward. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped walking.
He flexed his hands. She knew from past lessons what she was to do. She stepped forward and raised her hands to mirror his. Spreading her fingers, she matched her fingertips to his, moving them close, yet not touching him.
“Yes,” he said softly.
She drew in a deep breath. His musky fragrance teased her nostrils and made her head spin.
“Good girl, Isobel.” His voice caressed her. “You remember this from yesterday. Can you now see the power between us?”
She dragged her gaze away from his chest and dutifully observed the space between their fingertips. He always promised that she would see magic there, but she never did. Once she thought she saw a faint pink light around her own fingertips, but it had been rapidly devoured by an odd, sooty cloud pouring forth from Hugh’s hand. Surely such ugliness wasn’t what he’d expected her to notice. One blink, and the vision had vanished. She’d stopped trying to see after that.
“Do you see anything?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Empty your mind. Let me come to you. Let me fill you.”
His words sent chills through her. They’d danced through this ritual before. She was to stand still and clear her head of thought. Sometimes she felt a roar of wind between her ears. Once she’d felt her knees buckle as her mind whirled around and around inside her skull. Hugh had caught her as she’d reeled backward. He’d set her back on her feet, plucking his hands from her body as quickly as he could.
She’d actually seen him smile that day.
Was that, then, what he wanted?
Usually she kept her eyes closed during their lessons. Today discontent welled within her, making it hard to stand still in her solitary darkness. Cautiously, she opened her eyes to see. Hugh’s deep eyes remained closed. His hands stayed rigidly upraised.
Isobel’s restless stare raked his body. His powerful arms tensed as he stretched out his hands. He’d planted his feet firmly on the ground, his legs spread wide apart. His thighs looked as hard as the rocks he’d piled about the fire.
Isobel’s small, pink tongue licked her lips. Her hands trembled. He knew so very much about her. Why couldn’t he sense this knot in her stomach? He had to know how desperately she longed for his touch.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, Isobel took a deep breath and pressed her hands against his.
A jolt of heat raced from Hugh’s fingertips through her own. She nearly fell backward as a wave of passion slammed through her, turning her insides to molten gold. She wanted to pull him into her very being, to be swallowed whole by him. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open with the intensity of her own reaction.
But if she was surprised, Hugh seemed aghast. His eyes flew open as palm met palm, fingertip met fingertip.
“No.” His body began to shake. “I cannot touch you like this.”
But his body and his mind seemed at odds. Despite his words, his arms encircled her waist. He yanked her toward him, crushing her against his hard chest.
“I…won’t!” The words twisted away as he bent her back and roughly kissed her lips. Isobel gasped.
“No,” he muttered against her neck. “This will not happen to me. This cannot happen to me. Damn this body!”
She had lain with one other man before, a gentle young shepherd whose tentative hands and moist lips had left her more out of sorts than pleased. Hugh’s hand felt like a claw on her breast, but she did not care. She pressed against him, returning his kisses with ferocity that had long desired an escape. Sweat dripped in rivulets from his brow. She eagerly licked the salt from his lips.
Her small hand snaked across his hard stomach, coming to rest on the hardness between his legs. Before she even knew quite how, they were both on the ground, rolling in the prickly grass.
“No!” Hugh groaned, but then his mouth was back atop hers. His skin felt like a smoldering fire.
Suddenly he seemed a man gone mad. His sharp teeth pierced her lower lip, then his mouth left hers to travel down her neck. The rip of fabric broke the stillness as he tore the front of her dress. Her pink nipple disappeared into his mouth. The sucking hurt, but she could have borne it. It was his heat that shocked her. The five fingers gripping her thigh scorched her skin. The hand cupping her breast to his mouth might have been a stone from the oven.
His hungry mouth returned to hers. Steamy breath flowed through her, filling her until she thought she’d burst.
An odd power flooded her, sending thoughts topsyturvy and pushing them to the side of her head.
“Is all flesh this weak?” Hugh whispered into her ear. “Is this the price I must pay for human form?” He wedged his hand between her legs, forcing them open.
Her mind’s chaos seemed related to his touch. She could feel power flow though his fingertips, through his tongue as it probed her mouth, even through his belly pressed against hers. This was almost more than she could bear.
Suddenly she knew: if he took her now, she would die.
An unfamiliar force raced through her mind and to her tongue.
“No!” she shrieked.
Hugh grew rigid above her. Her own hands flew to her mouth.
“You spoke,” he said.
She nodded, mouth covered. The word had come from her body. Somehow, though, it had not been her voice.
Hugh raised himself to his knees. “Speak, Isobel!”
Terrified, Isobel opened her mouth. No sound emerged.
“You cannot?” He looked oddly elated.
She shook her head.
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. His odd dark eyes glowed nearly orange in the sunlight.
“We are triumphant,” he said, voice low. “We will meet again soon, Isobel. This is what must be.”
She recoiled. Was this, then, the reason for the endless lessons? Could the two of them create that overwhelming power again, the one that wanted to rule her thoughts?
Branches cracked in the underbrush.
“Cover yourself.” With a dispassionate glance at her exposed breasts, Hugh disappeared into the forest.
Isobel quickly rose, pulling her mantle about her.
Alys stood before her, Father Gregory at her side. Their eyes darted about the clearing, but Isobel knew that their search was futile. Hugh had left her quite alone.
But not for long. She had no doubt that there would be longer lessons now. Hugh would work his magic again and again, threatening to engulf her each and every time.
She would let him. He had given her a voice.
9
KAT STARED WITH UNSEEING EYES OUT THE HOSPITAL WINDOW. The day, still a brilliant blue, mocked the fact that Aunt Frannie lay motionless on the room’s sterile bed, attached to more medical equipment than her niece had ever known existed.
Kat bit her lower lip. Francesca would surely choose any alternative to this nightmare. How often had she heard her aunt remark that she wanted a quiet, dignified death, one marked by as little medical intervention as possible? Yet here she lay with neither a diagnosis nor a prognosis, simply a medical mystery hooked up to machinery.
One of the offending machines began to beep. Each beep correlated to a throb in Kat’s aching temple.
“Jesus, Stephen, make it stop.”
Her husband hoisted himself from his bedside chair, brow furrowed as he tried to locate the source of the noise.
A heavyset nurse with white hair bustled through the door. “That’ll be her IV,” she said in soothing tones. “It’ll take me only a minute to change the bag, and then you can have your privacy again.�
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Kat watched as the nurse efficiently unhooked the empty bag. Privacy. Well, of course. The medical profession, thoroughly stymied by Francesca’s lack of symptoms, expected her to die. Why not? All her vital signs indicated that she was asleep. There was nothing technically wrong with the woman in that bed. But there was nothing right, either. Nothing roused her. No amount of pushing, prodding, or pricking restored her to consciousness.
A muscle twitched in Stephen’s jaw. “Excuse me,” he said to the nurse, “but what happens next?”
The nurse untangled the IV tubing and straightened to face him. “Next?”
Stephen nodded. “Will there be more tests?”
“Oh.” She ran her palms down the front of her brightly patterned smock. “Well, Mr. Carmichael, I can’t say that I really know. The doctor should be in soon. You can ask him about it.”
“What usually happens in these situations?” Stephen pressed.
“Every situation is different.” The nurse’s sympathetic smile enveloped Kat as well as Stephen. “I would assume that we’ll keep searching for answers. In the meantime, we can at least keep our patient comfortable.”
Kat’s stomach tightened. She took a step forward, eyes trained on her aunt. “I don’t see how anybody could be comfortable with all those tubes invading her body.”
The nurse reached for her hand. “Don’t worry. She’s not in any pain.”
Kat met Stephen’s gaze. “I want to take her home,” she said.
The nurse flushed, then tightened her grasp on Kat’s fingers. “Oh, no, Ms. Piretti, I’m sure that wouldn’t be wise at this point.”
Kat extricated her hand from the crushing grip. “Stephen, I want to take her home.”
“I’ll fetch the doctor.” The nurse nearly spun from the room.
Stephen studied his wife’s determined face. “Are you sure?”
She drifted to his side and quietly rested her head against his chest. Together they observed her aunt. Francesca’s hair fanned across the pillow, so white that it almost disappeared against the paleness of the pillowcase. Her face, smooth and unlined, was the color of alabaster. Translucent eyelids flickered now and then, and pink lips rested in a tiny half smile. She looked at least half her age.